


Get Ready for It

by Sheepie



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Bottom!Harry, Canon-Typical Violence, Civilian!Harry, Eggsy is an idiot in love, Fluff, Harry is an idiot in love, M/M, Mission Fic, Pining, Smut, Uncharted meets Castle in the Sky, agent-in-training!Eggsy, bashful!Harry, but with gay spies, comicverse meets movieverse, crazy bond villain, lepidopterist!Harry, my attempt at slow burn, top!Eggsy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-04 12:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12169278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepie/pseuds/Sheepie
Summary: Harry is a lepidopterist who lives a quiet life by himself. One day, he meets a young man who perks his interest. The meeting is fleeting, though, and Harry suspects he’ll never meet him again. Until the day the boy shows up on his doorstep, unannounced, asking for his help.Eggsy is a spy in training, and really this mission is above his pay grade. But things have gone tits up. His uncle is missing and half of Kingsman is compromised. Working with a small group of agents, consisting of Merlin, Roxy, and Percival, Eggsy must race against the clock to save Jack and the world.The key to it all? A quiet lepidopterist named Harry Hart, the only man who’s ever seen a rare breed of butterfly.With the help of Harry, Eggsy sets off on daring missions and great adventure, getting hands-on experience as an international spy, and discovering that love comes in the most surprising of places.





	1. A Well-Worn Path

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write this after seeing Kingsman: TGC. This is my way of fixing things.
> 
> Self-betaed.

Harry lived a very particular life. He had a set routine that he followed day in and day out. He woke five minutes before his alarm, but laid in bed until it went off. His mornings ran as smoothly as a well-oiled clock: make the bed, go to the bathroom, take a shower, then down to the kitchen to feed Mr. Pickle and have breakfast.

The path from his bedroom to the kitchen was well-worn, the carpet faded where his feet had tread over the years. If stricken blind, Harry could maneuver the halls with ease and grace simply by the feel of the smooth white banister beneath his hand. He followed it down in the mornings and back upstairs in the afternoons when he went to his office to work after classes. He followed that same path downstairs once more for evening supper and Mr. Pickle’s walk.

His life could easily be explained in a series of steps, all starting from his bed.

That morning was like any other. Harry opened his eyes, his handmade quilt pulled high to his chin, and stared up at the ceiling.

Mr. Pickle was curled against his hip. Harry always tried to get him to sleep in his own bed, but by the time the sunlight crept through the slants of the blinds, he was beside Harry.

“Good morning,” Harry greeted, setting a hand on top of Mr. Pickle’s head. Mr. Pickle made a small sound and huffed, not quite waking as Harry let the time morning settle around them.

He watched the flecks of dust dance in the beams of sunlight. The mornings were the loudest. It was when he realized how empty the bed was, how the silence could fill a room, and how cold a space could be when there was only one.

Harry looked over to the other side of his bed. There hadn’t been someone there in many years. Not since his earlier days, when he was young and exuberant, before he settled into this quiet life of method and schedule.

The alarm went off and Harry hit the switch after the first beep. Autopilot clicked on and he moved through his daily cycles. Mr. Pickle followed behind like a faithful shadow until Harry poured the kibble into his bowl, then he abandoned Harry for his food.

The only conversation Harry got with his bowl of oatmeal was Mr. Pickle’s crunching. He watched Mr. Pickle as he finished his breakfast, and then cleaned the dishes.

“Come along Mr. Pickle, time for your walk,” Harry announced. Mr. Pickle abandoned the remaining kibble and trotted over to Harry, not moving as quickly as he used to.

Harry clipped Mr. Pickle’s leash to his collar. There was a slight twinge in his back and his limbs were still a bit stiff from sleep. He moved about as quickly as Mr. Pickle.

“I do believe we’re getting on in the years,” Harry said conversationally to Mr. Pickle and headed out.

That was his fear, too. That one morning he’d wake up and be _old_. It already seemed to be happening. He was only fifty-two, but he lived his life like he was seventy. Simple, quiet, and without fuss.

The most excitement he got was from the Sunday crossword.

Harry led Mr. Pickle down the street. He belatedly realized he forgot to grab his coat and immediately regretted it when a crisp breeze rustled through the trees lining the street. It was a cool April, and even though the sun was bright, there was a dampness to the air, as if the snow had only just melted.

Mr. Pickle led Harry to the nearby park. The path was as worn as the one in Harry’s house. He knew how many footsteps it took to get there.

For as familiar as it was, the comfort was dismaying, like he’d suddenly realized his well-worn record wasn’t as good as he’d always believed. Yet Harry didn’t deviate from the path—as much as he wondered, he couldn’t. His feet were set on tracks, programed to go to one place and nowhere else.

When they reached the park, Mr. Pickle went about his business of sniffing out the trees and bushes. They took the trail that looped around the lake, never deviating up the hill or towards one of the other paths that branched off. The park was relatively empty spare a few of the older couples that went for their morning walks. Harry nodded to Mrs. Pemberley as she passed.

A skein of geese passed over him, honking to announce their procession, and Harry stopped to watch. That was when he saw it—an _algais io_ , the European Peacock butterfly. While not rare, it was still beautiful, and this one was stunning.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, willing every cell and atom in his body to be still. The butterfly perched on wild stinging needle. The four eyes on the butterfly’s wings were in shades of vibrant carmine and azure. The perfectly colored eyes stared back at Harry as the butterfly opened and closed its wings.

Harry kept his gaze on the butterfly as he moved his left hand to his pocket. The seconds droned on, and each time the butterfly closed its wings, Harry was sure it would take flight. Finally, he reached his pocket and retrieved his phone.

Mr. Pickle decided then that he was done waiting for Harry to fuss over the butterfly and found something more interesting to hold his attention—namely a squirrel.

                It all happened too fast for Harry. He’d been moving so slow, and then suddenly someone hit Fast Forward and everything was speedup three times. Mr. Pickle barked, the butterfly took off, and Harry stupidly leapt to reach for it, simultaneously dropping his phone and Mr. Pickle’s leash.

Mr. Pickle took off after the squirrel and the butterfly flew away.

Harry cursed and looked down at his phone, the screen shattered. He picked it up with a grumble and turned to look for Mr. Pickle, who raced up a hill.

“Mr. Pickle!” Harry shouted and chased after him. Mr. Pickle continued to bark, his leash fluttering behind him.

Harry stopped at the top of the hill and hunched over, his hands braced on his knees. He panted, watching as Mr. Pickle lost the squirrel and ran towards a helpless man. The man turned when he heard Mr. Pickle bark and crouched down to catch him. Mr. Pickle barreled into the man, yapping excitedly.

Harry jogged over, calling, “I’m sorry! He’s friendly, I promise.”

“This your dog, bruv?” The man asked, looking up at Harry.

Harry came to a standstill, for a second dumbstruck as he stared into the man’s eyes. They were as vibrant and stunning as the eyes of the European Peacock. A vibrant shade of blue-green that shifted ever so slightly in hue when he tipped his head. Thick black lashes lined his eyes and fluttered as he stared up at Harry, Mr. Pickle wiggling in his arms.

“Y-yes,” Harry said, heat rising up his neck. “Yes, he is. Mr. Pickle.”

The man raised an eyebrow, a scar running through it. “Mr. Pickle?”

Harry’s entire face flamed. “His name is Mr. Pickle.”

“Oh,” the man said, the corner of his mouth twitching. He set Mr. Pickle down and passed Harry the leash. “I was about to say, that’s an odd name.”

“Hart.”

The man tipped his head to the side, dirty-blonde hair falling into his eyes. He was dressed casually, in a polo that was perhaps a tad too small (going by the way it stretched across his thick chest), a zip-up hoodie with yellow racing stripes, and a pair of dark denim jeans that clung to the thickest thighs Harry had ever seen.

“Um,” The man said, and Harry realized he’d been staring, for quite some time.

Harry coughed into his fist and said, “My name is Harry. Dr. Harry Hart.”

“Oh, you’re a doctor?” The man asked.

“Well, technically speaking. Not a medical one.”

The man frowned, and it looked almost like he was pouting. Was it legal for someone to have such a plush mouth?

“What kind then? Like a psychiatrist?”

“No, I’m a lepidopterist.”

Mr. Pickle sniffed at Harry’s shoes before sitting down and watching them. Harry realized how he must look—face red and sweaty, hair disheveled, dressed in a button down and cardigan, looking every part a grandpa. God, he must seem like such a leech.

“A lepi-what? Isn’t that a disease?”

“No.” Harry chuckled. He got that often, and while usually it annoyed him, the honest curiosity in the man’s eyes softened Harry. “Lepidopterist. I study butterflies and moths for a living.”

The man held a hand out to Harry. “Well, Dr. Hart, I’m Eggsy.”

“Please, just call me Harry,” Harry said and took Eggsy’s hand. His palms were rough and worn, like he spent countless hours a day using them. “A pleasure, Eggsy. And thank you, for catching Mr. Pickle.”

“No problem, got one like him myself. Sneaky little pug named JB. He’s always wandering off where he shouldn’t be.”

“Mr. Pickle usually doesn’t do this,” Harry confessed, looking down at Mr. Pickle who stared up at him innocently.

“Must have been fate, then,” Eggsy said with a wink.

No, that couldn’t have been a wink.

Could it?

Eggsy grinned at Harry, and Harry could feel the heat creeping back up his neck.

“Well, you see, I was trying to take a picture of this butterfly I saw—it was quite beautiful. An _algais io_ , that is, a European Peacock. They’re quite common, but this one was very lovely, with the most stunning eyes on its wings, and when I reached for my phone he saw—that is, Mr. Pickle—a squirrel, and then he was off, and I broke my phone, and…”

Harry trailed off, realizing he’d started to ramble. Eggsy watched him, both of his eyebrows as high as his hairline. All the blood that had been warming his face, drained. He coughed in his hand and muttered, “Perhaps it was fate.”

“Most stunning eyes, eh?” Eggsy said, leaning forward and looking up. Harry was about a foot taller than him, which made it hard for him to shrink away. “I don’t know bruv, I’m looking at a pretty killer pair myself.”

Harry choked on his saliva, a distressed sound escaping him in a wheeze. Eggsy continued to grin, his smile widening even more if it were possible.

“I-I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Pickle’s collar clinked, but Harry didn’t look down at him to see what he was getting into now. He couldn’t seem to pull his gaze away from Eggsy. He licked his lips, and he swore Eggsy’s eyes flicked to his mouth.

“I was actually thinking of grabbing a cup of coffee, would you like to join me?” Eggsy asked.

Had he gotten closer? The space between them seemed to be closing at an alarming rate, and Harry didn’t know why.

Pressure pulled at Harry’s leg, tightening. His heart thundered, loud enough to deafen the gaggle of geese landing in the water.

“Well, you see, I have class—I’m a professor, at the Imperial College, and I have a class at ten,” Harry started to say, but Eggsy cut him off. “It’s only eight thirty.”

Right.

“Well, I like to look at my books,” Harry said—fuck. No. That wasn’t what he meant. He meant yes. He meant yes, dammit.

“Books?”

“My butterfly books,” Harry said.

Eggsy’s gaze softened, and somehow that was far worse than him laughing at Harry. The tightness snapped against Harry’s calves, and too late he realized Mr. Pickle had been winding around them. They were pulled together, tangled up in the leash.

Eggsy’s chest bumped against Harry’s, and a second racing heart followed his own. Harry blinked and called out, “Mr. Pickle!”

Eggsy threw his head back and laughed.

Harry wished he could die, right then and there. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re fine, really,” Eggsy said.

Mr. Pickle looked up at them proudly, his tail wagging.

It took a bit of work, but they managed to free themselves. Harry was sure Eggsy would just go after that—he would—but instead Eggsy lingered, shaking his head.

“Sure I can’t interest you in a cuppa?” Eggsy asked.

“Well,” Harry said, trailing off as he looked to the familiar path around the lake. The same one he walked every day. The same one that led home, to the same steps he took every afternoon. The one he never deviated from.

“Perhaps I have time for one,” Harry agreed.

“Splendid,” Eggsy said. “Come on, there’s a place around the corner from here.”

Harry nodded and let Eggsy lead him to the café. Harry had never been there. He hadn’t even known it existed. It was a quaint corner café with a bay window in the front and gold lettering across the glass. Out front they had a few wrought iron bistro sets, where Eggsy and Harry sat. The waitress brought out a bowl of water for Mr. Pickle and two cups of coffee for them.

From the open front doors of the café, Harry could hear a French song playing. He didn’t know the words—his French was very rusty—but it held a lovely melody and settled into the background.

“So, you’re a professor? Or are you like Indiana Jones?” Eggsy asked, lifting his mug with both hands and blowing on the coffee.

“Indiana Jones?”

“You know, racing off on adventures. I mean, that’s a really specific field to go into.”

Harry shook his head. “I haven’t been out in the field in over twenty years,” Harry said. He bit his bottom lip, mentally cursing himself. Dammit, way to show his age.

“But you have been?”

“Technically, yes. But it was nothing as exciting as Indiana Jones—he was an archeologist after all.”

Eggsy shrugged. “You could have one though—discover a rare butterfly, or uncover a conspiracy to extract their poison.”

Harry blinked. “You have a very colorful imagination.”

Eggsy flushed. He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing. “So I’m told.”

“We mostly just went out to study the butterflies in their natural habitat. Though, I did see a rare butterfly once.”

“Yeah?”

Harry took a sip of his drink, recalling the memory. It had been early in his career, shortly after he finished getting his Ph.D.

“Have you ever heard of the Silver Magdalene?” Harry asked.

“No.” Eggsy blinked slowly.

Well there took the impressiveness out of it.

“It’s a beautiful moth, found only in the deepest parts of the Malaysian jungle. I went there to study the _triodes brookiana albescens_.” Eggsy gave him a confused look, and Harry added, “The Rajah Brooke’s Birdwing. A beautiful butterfly with quite an impressive wingspan. We were going to learn about its mating cycle. That was when we came upon it, the Silver Magdalene. It’s actually listed as the first sighting, and I don’t believe there has been another since.”

“How come?” Eggsy forgot his coffee on the table, his attention on Harry.

It was the first time someone hadn’t told him to shut up when he started to ramble. Harry’s ears warmed.

“Well, where we found it is very hard to come across. We stumbled upon it by accident. There aren’t any pictures of it on the internet.”

“Yeah? Then how do I know you aren’t lying?” Eggsy teased, the accusation softened by his smile.

“Well, I have proof. There’s a picture back at my place. We managed to get a few, though most were lost in a dreadful fire a few years later at the school. I retained a copy, though, for my collection, along with all my field notes.”

Eggsy leaned on the table, his arms crossed in front of him. “Maybe I can see it some time.”

“You can’t though, it isn’t available for the public. It’s just my copy.”

Was Eggsy listening?

“Well, maybe you can show me,” Eggsy continued.

Harry’s brain finally made the connection and he nearly spit out the coffee he’d been sipping. “Oh. Uh.” Desperate for a change of topic, Harry asked, while half-coughing, “What do you do?”

Eggsy didn’t seem fazed by the abrupt change and slouched back in his chair, limbs sprawled lackadaisically. “I’m a student.”

“Oh? What are you studying?”

“International Studies.” Eggsy said, sharing a private smirk that Harry didn’t get.

Harry frowned and took a drink of coffee. “Do you attend the Imperial College?”

“No. I’m going to a different uni,” Eggsy said. He pulled out his phone and frowned. “Sorry to drink and run, Haz, but I have to get going.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. Oh. “Right, of course. I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.”

“I asked you, remember bruv?” Eggsy stood and patted Harry’s shoulder. His hand lingered. Harry swore Eggsy squeezed his shoulder. “It was really nice meeting you.”

“As you, Eggsy.”

“See you Harry,” Eggsy said and winked. “See you Mr. Pickle.”

Mr. Pickle perked up at his name. Eggsy waved and jotted off, leaving Harry sitting in front of the café, far from his usual trail with a confusing tension in his stomach.

***

The night when he returned home, his flat felt different. He walked the same path he usually did, but suddenly the steps weren’t the same. A veil had been lifted and Harry now realized what laid beyond his well-kept world. He didn’t know if he liked it, his rabbit heartbeat, the way his footsteps felt like he was sinking through clouds, or how every few seconds his thoughts drifted back to an infectious smile and a little black mole on a succulent throat.

When he took Mr. Pickle out for his evening walk, Harry looped the park a few extra times, hoping by chance he may run into Eggsy again. When he returned home, Harry wondered if he should have offered his number. It was only then that he remembered his broken phone, which he set aside to be fixed later.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Harry told himself as he prepared his evening cup of tea. “A boy that age wouldn’t be flirting with you. He was making polite conversation, that was all.”

 _Though_ … _he did ask to go to your house._ Maybe not in those exact words, but in a roundabout way, he had insinuated.

Harry glanced around his home. Most of the decorations were family heirlooms he got from mother and Nana. He carried his tea up to his chair in the living room, Mr. Pickle at his heel. Mr. Pickle went to his bed next to the fire, which crackled soothingly. Harry picked up the book next to his chair and started to flip through it, determined that he wouldn’t think of Eggsy anymore.

There wasn’t any point, really. He wouldn’t even see the lad again.

With that thought, Harry started to flip through the pages. It was a published field journal from one of his predecessors. The hand sketches of various butterflies were beautiful, with delicate line work creating intricate patterns in the wings.

Studying the images, looking at them, and even touching them, brought Harry back to reality and the comfort it carried. This was his life, this was the path he chose. All those years ago, when he’d come to a fork in the road, he’d chosen to go down this one. He could have gone into the military, could have led a life filled with valor and honor, but instead he’d chosen to live in quiet solitude with his butterflies and moths.

And while he was happy with his choice, sometimes he did wonder what it would have been like to go the other route. Would the road have been this calm? Would he have retired with a husband and kids? Would he have medals and lived a life filled with battle and adventure?

The idea of going off to fight turned his stomach. No, he wasn’t the violent kind. Maybe in his younger days he’d been a bit more rambunctious, but now? Certainly not.

Though, things hadn’t always been so quiet. He’d had a taste, once upon a time.

Harry paused on a page with Swallowtails on it and glanced at Mr. Pickle. He snapped the leather-bound book shut and set it back on the end table.

He hadn’t been fully truthful to Eggsy. During that trip to the jungle, things hadn’t been as straightforward. Sure, going into the trip, none of them had planned on coming upon what they did. No one knew that their discover could bear such weight. And now, all these years later, Harry still couldn’t fully fathom its magnitude.

Mr. Pickle lifted his head as Harry got up and went upstairs to his office. On the wall opposite his desk were a set of bookshelves, all containing books and his own field journals. He withdrew one, the spine broken and worn, the pages yellowed with age. On the cover, in gold lettering, was the date ‘1995’. He would have been 30, freshly out of the doctorate program.

Back then, everything had been grand. The world had become his playground, and he thought he would get to see it, to study it, and even change it.

Harry walked over to his desk and took a seat. He set the journal down and carefully opened it. The first page was simply his name, written in the top right corner with his neat, tight cursive.

It was almost twenty-five years ago that he’d set out on that trip. Dr. Andrew Fletcher had spearheaded the expedition. The man had been at the ripe age of fifty-five.

Harry paused, considering. _I’m almost that old now. Only three more years…_

It was a sobering thought.

The second page listed all the members of the group, to help Harry remember names and faces.

Dr. Fletcher, then Harry and Dr. Elliot Bastion. There were three students that went with them, and a small crew including a Malaysian guide they met on arrival. The entire trip had been a dream, mostly because it hadn’t seemed possible. They’d been funded by a private benefactor, and even to this day, Harry still didn’t know who it he or she had been.

“I wonder what ever happened to Dr. Fletcher,” Harry mused. He’d lost contact a couple years after the trip. Elliot had never been a fan of his, they’d butted heads from the moment the trip started. Harry had seen his name in a few academic journals over the years, but there hadn’t been anything recently.

“Perhaps I’ll look into them,” Harry thought out loud. Then again, maybe not. He didn’t really want to disrupt the quite life he had.


	2. The Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-betaed
> 
> Also I've HC Aidan Gillen for Elliot.

            When his alarm went off, Harry was already awake. It wasn’t anything new, another normal start to another average day. But the thoughts racing through his mind weren’t of the typical kind, nor had his dreams been usual. A funny thing to consider, seeing as how dreams were unpredictable. Harry’s weren’t, though. They were normal, regular dreams. The kind of dreams he could depend on night after night, with little deviation.

            Last night, though, he’d been overcome with thoughts of dimpled smiles and infectious laughs. He relived his conversation at the café with Eggsy, but instead of it ending with their departure, Eggsy bent Harry over the table and proceeded to rim him. When he woke, well before his alarm, his prick had stood as straight as a redwood.

            Harry spent the remainder of his time in bed convincing himself that he was too old to take care of business. Eventually the alarm went off and Harry’s erection had deflated.

            What was wrong with him? Lusting over a man he’d only just met, a man who couldn’t have been less than thirty years younger than him.

            Maybe he was finally starting to enter his midlife crisis. He’d always wondered if it would sneak up on him.

            Harry went about his morning routine, his thoughts muddled with memories of hot tongues and the darkening feeling that he was indeed entering some type of crisis, whether midlife or existential was to be decided.

            “You’re too old for this,” Harry told his reflection as he brushed his teeth, bits of foam spraying the glass. He cleaned the glass off and rinsed his mouth.

            When Harry took Mr. Pickle for his walk, he told himself that he didn’t loop an extra time along the pathway because he hoped to run into Eggsy again. Mr. Pickle watched him with a tilted head, his ears lowering and lifting. Harry could hear his thoughts now: _what is wrong with you?_

Harry took Mr. Pickle home and went to work, having an early class that morning. He usually maintained a warm, albeit somewhat distant disposition. He supposed all those years of sitting away from people to read his books and eat his lunch may have cast him in an antisocial light. But usually he got a ‘good morning’ or ‘hello professor’ from a passing teacher or student.

            That morning everyone gave him a wide berth as he made his way to class.

            The light chatter that oscillated through the lecture hall fell silent as Harry briskly walked in and set his briefcase down on his desk.

            “There’ll be a surprise quiz this morning,” Harry announced and opened his briefcase.

A succession of groans filled the room. Harry ignored them and reached for the stack of papers he’d printed off yesterday. Sitting next to them was the field journal he’d pulled out the night before. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the journal.

            Harry shook his head and selected the stack of papers. He handed out sheaths of paper to each row and instructed, “Pass them back. You’ll have twenty minutes to complete it, and then we’ll begin todays lecture.”

            He returned to his desk and took a seat. His suitcase was still propped open, the field journal sitting easily in reach. Funny, he didn’t even remember putting it in his briefcase.

            _Wonderful. Not only am I going through a midlife crisis, but now I’m becoming senile._

Perhaps it was time for him to just retire to the countryside and live out the remainder of his days in solitude. It wouldn’t be much different from now, Harry thought. Maybe with the addition of bees, but otherwise he’d be just as equally alone and dull as ever.

            Harry picked up the field journal and flipped through it.

            He hadn’t always been this boring. Back then there had been a sense of adventure around him. Sure, he hadn’t lived an exciting life like Indiana Jones, but there had been wonder and possibility. More than there was now.

            Neat script filled the pages of the leather-bound journal, along with sketches and pressed foliage and flowers he’d collected on the trip. There had been so many butterflies. He’d kept a list in his pocket during the trip and ticked off each one he came across. When he could, he’d drawn them out with painstaking detail.

            Harry smiled at the _curetis saronis sumatrana_ he’d come across. Written below it in brackets was the common name _Sumatrana Sunbeam_. With a bit of watercolor from the travel kit he’d had back in the day, Harry had tried to capture the yellow glow of the small butterfly’s wings. He’d always thought it looked like embers.

            He turned the page, his finger pausing. The corner was torn off, removing the date. A leaf was taped on one side of the book, the other filled completely with a sketch of a strange statue.

            _That’s right..._ He’d forgotten, after all these years.

            No, not forgotten. He’d locked away, chosen not to remember because it was easier than facing the memories.

            “Professor Hart?” A student asked.

            Harry jerked his head up and looked around the class. They were watching him, a stack of completed quizzes on the corner of his desk.

            Harry coughed in his hand and stood. “Shall we begin?”

            He put the field journal away and didn’t think about it for the rest of the class. When his lecture was over, Harry returned to his office, purposefully placing the field journal and his memories far back into the recesses of his mind.

Call it compartmentalizing his emotions, but the way he saw it, there was no reason to dredge up nasty and unsavory things.

This was all Eggsy’s fault. If he hadn’t met the young man, he wouldn’t be going down this track.

Harry huffed and set his briefcase down. He managed to put all the nonsense off for the next two hours as he graded quizzes and papers he’d been putting off. At noon, he broke for lunch.

He went to a sandwich shop near the campus and brought his lunch back. He was halfway through his turkey on rye, when a knock at the door disrupted his concentration.

Assuming it was a student, Harry said after he swallowed, “Come in.”

He set his sandwich down on the wrapped and wiped his mouth, not looking up to see who it was until the door opened. Leaning against the frame, his arms crossed casually over his chest, was a man Harry had not thought of in many years.

“Hello Harry,” Elliot Bastion said with a wry smile.

The half-a-sandwich Harry had just eaten rolled over in his stomach, threatening to come back up on a wave of mustard flavored bile.

“Elliot,” Harry said, his voice cracking as he took the man in. He’d certainly aged well—still devilishly handsome—with only the slightest of gray showing in his hair, a feature that Harry didn’t doubt was intentional. “How are you? It’s been so long.” He rose, knocking his chair back and nearly sending it toppling.

Elliot’s smile widened as Harry fumbled to move around his desk and greet him. Elliot pushed off the door frame and accepted Harry’s hand. His grip was firm, a flex of his fingers at the wrist, three solid pumps of the arm from the elbow. It was a power shake.

It took a second for Harry’s mind to process the unrelenting steel behind his touch. He wasn’t even being figurative—Elliot’s hand was a prosthetic.

“Good,” Elliot said, dropping his hand before Harry could get a better look. “You’re teaching now, I see.”

“Ah, yes,” Harry said. “I suppose field studies weren’t my thing.”

“No, I suppose not,” Elliot agreed. There was the smugness Harry was all too familiar with. He’d been at the brunt end of it all those years ago, even while he tripped over his damn feet to get Elliot to notice him. “Do you have a moment?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry said gestured to one of the seats in front of his desk. He returned to his seat. “I didn’t realize you were in town. What are you up to now?”

“I bit of this and that,” Elliot said with a shrug, and Harry’s gaze lingered on the broad length of his shoulders. Elliot always knew how to wear a suit, and from the way his was currently poured on him, Harry would bet his entire butterfly collection that it was bespoke. “I’ve been abroad for the last couple years doing research.”

“You always were the more adventurous out of the two of us,” Harry said.

Elliot picked up a figure on Harry’s desk—a butterfly suspended between two sheets of glass. He smiled, remembering clearly when Dr. Fletcher had given it to him as both a congratulations and parting gift. Harry wondered for the second time what happened to his mentor.

Elliot turned the butterfly between his hands, his fingers dexterously rolling it around and around as he studied the Blue Morpho. Harry bit his bottom lip, clamping one hand over the other to keep from reaching for the glass figure.

“What can I say? I got a thirst for it thanks to Dr. Fletcher,” Elliot said. He paused in turning the butterfly and raised his prosthetic hand. It looked like a regular hand at first glance, but Harry had felt the strength behind it in that one handshake. “It’s one of the many parting gifts he gave me. If only I could have been so lucky as to receive a butterfly instead.”

Elliot set the butterfly back down, holding Harry’s gaze. Tension pooled in his stomach as he waited for Elliot to say something else—anything really—because Harry didn’t know how to respond. What was he supposed to say? How did he apologize for an accident that happened over thirty years ago?

The severe look on Elliot’s face crumpled into a teasing smile. “Ah, but that’s old news. And not why I came here.”

Harry coughed in his hand. “What is it then? The reason that you came here.”

“Well, I suppose I shouldn’t say that isn’t the reason I came,” Elliot said. He stood and walked around Harry’s office to one of the bookcases that lined the walls. Much like his own home, Harry filled his office until there wasn’t a bit of negative space left to suffocate him.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, carefully.

Elliot ran a finger along the spines of books lining one of the shelves. “I’m doing some research,” Elliot said and looked over his shoulder, flashing Harry that charming smile that could make his knees wobble.

 _Pull it together, Hart._ He knew Elliot’s tricks, the way he flirted to get what he wanted. Those looks weren’t really for Harry. They were weapons used to disarm him.

“Oh? On what?” Harry asked and picked up his tea cup. He took a sip and grimaced, his tea now cold. He set the cup back down. “I’d be happy to be of assistance.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Elliot said and walked over to the next book shelf. He withdrew one book and opened it. He flipped through a few pages, then snapped the book closed and returned it to the shelf. “You see, I’ve decided to look back into Silver Magdalene.”

“What?” Harry whispered.

“If you remember, I lost my field journal in the accident,” Elliot said and raised his prosthetic hand again, wiggling his fingers. “It occurred to me that you would have kept yours—you’ve always been the dependable type Harry—and I was hoping you would lend it to me. I promise to return it once I’ve made my notes.”

Elliot walked back over to the desk and clasped the back of the chair he’d been sitting in. He smiled, and if Harry hadn’t spent months with him, mooning over him, despising and yearning for him, Harry would have readily agreed and handed over his journal.

Other than the one article Dr. Fletcher had released on their finding, no one else had ever reported on the butterfly. Shortly after the release of Dr. Fletcher’s findings a series of expeditions had happened in search of the butterfly, but when no one else could find it, it had slipped out of the minds of scientists. Really, Harry shouldn’t have been surprised that Eggsy hadn’t known what the Silver Magdalene was, because unless he read one of the scientific journals the article was published in, he never would have heard of it.

“What brought this on?” Harry asked, forcing himself not to glance at the journal sitting on his desk.

“You know me,” Elliot said with a rich burgundy laugh. “Always looking for the next hunt. Call it intellectual curiosity.”

“Do you really think you can find it again?”

“I plan to—that is, with your help. So, would I be able to borrow it?” Elliot leaned over the chair, looming above Harry.

“Don’t you think—considering what happened—that it would be best to forget that place? To forget the Silver Magdalene?”

“Doesn’t the world have a right to know about it?” Elliot asked, spreading his arms out as if he were gesturing the entirety of the world. “We have a chance to discover something that no one else has. Don’t you remember that feeling when we first came upon them?”

Harry did. The sense of wonder and awe was immeasurable. He still saw them in his dreams, dancing beyond his reach. And something in his gut told him that was how it should be. Elliot clutched the chair with his prosthetic, his gaze jumping back to the bookshelves as if he were hunting for Harry’s journal.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, putting as much sincerity as he could behind it. “I wish I could help, but I lost my journal a few years back during a move.”

Elliot narrowed his eyes, and for a terrifying second Harry thought he could see the lie, but then his shoulders slumped and he nodded. “I see, what a shame.” Elliot let go of the chair and took a step back. “Well, I won’t take any more of your time.”

“I do apologize,” Harry said.

“No, I knew it was a stretch.”

Harry stood and walked Elliot to the door. “If I should find anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Elliot said.

Harry shut the door behind him after he left and walked back to his desk. He stood to the side for several minutes, replaying the interaction in his head. He didn’t know why he didn’t just hand over his journal. It was right there on the desk.

Perhaps it was the lingering jealousy and sting from being both spurned by Elliot and tortured by him all those years ago. There was nothing worse than falling for your bully, and that was exactly what Harry had done on their expedition.

It wasn’t like there was any reason not to let him find the Silver Magdalene. Other than being rare and immensely beautiful, there wasn’t anything special—well, no. That was a lie.

A pillar, much like an effigy, flashed in Harry’s mind. He could still see it, covered in Silver Magdalene, a faint blue glow emitting from it.

Harry pulled out his phone with a shake of his head. Leaning against the desk, he googled Dr. Fletcher’s name. It only took a short search to find his office number at Cambridge. He selected the number and brought the phone to his ear.

After five rings, a woman came onto the line. “Dr. Fletcher’s office, how may I help you?”

“Hello, this is Dr. Harry Hart, is Dr. Fletcher in?” Harry said.

“I’m afraid Dr. Fletcher is currently in a meeting. I could take a message if you like,” his secretary said.

Harry considered, studying the chair Elliot had been standing behind only moments ago. When he didn’t respond right away, Dr. Fletcher’s secretary prompted, “Sir?”

Harry’s gaze fixed on the top of the chair. Distracted, he said, “No… no, I’ll call back.” He hung up, setting the phone on his desk as he walked over to the chair and studied it.

At the top, where the wood curved, were splinters that hadn’t been there before, as if great pressured had compressed the frame. Harry traced the crack with a finger, wondering how it could have formed.

* * * *

            That night when Harry got home from work, he tried to push aside all thoughts of Elliot and Dr. Fletcher and go about his routine. Mr. Pickle watched him with a cocked head as he fumbled his way around the kitchen, breaking a cup as he removed the kettle from the hob. Harry set the kettle back down and placed his hands on the counter, his shoulders hunched high around his ears.

            “There is absolutely no reason to be this bothered,” Harry told Mr. Pickle.

            Mr. Pickle agreed with a bark. Harry sighed, slumped his shoulders, and went about cleaning his mess. When the cup was disposed of and the shards swept away, he fixed a second cup and retired to his office to lose himself in some busy work.

            Harry set the cup aside and found his stack of quizzes he hadn’t finished grading. Elliot’s visit had completely disrupted the rest of his day. Even his following class had gone by in a kind of haze, as if he’d stepped into a cloud and was observing the world from above.

            Mr. Pickle walked into his office and went straight to his bed. Harry smiled at him and picked up a fountain pen. He set the wide nib against the first piece of paper and read over the answers. His gaze immediately glazed as his mind started to wander.

            Why was Elliot interested in the Silver Magdalene again? If anyone would want to set themselves apart from the butterflies, it would have been him.

            Why did Harry lie about his field journal? There was no reason not to hand it over. Harry didn’t plan on ever chasing after the butterflies. He was completely content here at home, safe and sound.

            Elliot, while he had many faults, had never proven himself untrustworthy—and what was there not to trust? It wasn’t like there was any stake in this for Harry. If Elliot wanted to pursue what they’d all left behind, then he had every right to.

            “Maybe I should call him,” Harry said, only to realize he had no number to call. He blinked, staring down at a large ink blob on the paper. He set the pen down with a huff and pushed the stack of papers aside. “Shite.”

            This was getting ridiculous.

            He took a sip of tea and frowned into his mug—he needed something stronger, something that would truly get his mind off this wretched day. Harry went over to the wet bar he kept in the corner of his office and poured himself a glass of scotch. It wasn’t often he allowed himself such an indulgence, but tonight certainly warranted a glass.

            “Tomorrow I’ll look Elliot up and see if I can’t e-mail him,” Harry told Mr. Pickle, who watched him with his muzzle tucked between his paws. Harry frowned down at Mr. Pickle’s wide-eyed stare and sniffed. “Don’t look at me like that—it’s for the best. I’ll let him know I found my journal and be done with it.”

            And who knew, maybe Elliot would be interested in getting some dinner.

            Harry pressed the cool crystal to his inflamed cheeks. “Now _that_ is a ridiculous notion.”

            Almost as ridiculous as the idea of Eggsy ever being interested in him. Elliot was just as much out of his league as Eggsy. Harry really needed to stop reaching for the stars and be happy here on earth.

            He returned to his desk and forced himself to grade the papers. With the aid of scotch, Harry finished grading his papers. When he looked up from the last quiz, it was well past midnight, and he was on his way through his third glass.

            Mr. Pickle yawned and stood to stretch. Harry pushed back in his chair, draining the last of his drink. “I agree,” Harry said and set the crystal tumbler down. “I think it’s time for bed.”

            He switched off his desk lamp. Moonlight pooled into the office, flooding it with blue light that cast a collection of shadows across the walls. He stretched his arms sluggishly above his head, his back twinging—he was too old to be sitting like that for as long as he did. He’d regret it come morning.

            Mr. Pickle waited for him at the office door. He’d have to take him out one last time with how late it had gotten. Perhaps Mr. Pickle wouldn’t mind just going out back into the small square of garden Harry maintained.

            The field journal sticking out from beneath the stack of freshly graded quizzes caught his attention. He nudged the papers off it and picked up the journal.

            How late had he stayed up last night looking through it? The flood of memories the book invoked had followed him into his dreams, an invisible monster that seemed to be wherever Harry turned.

            “Come along Mr. Pickle,” Harry said, taking the journal with him.

            Before Harry could open the door, Mr. Pickle tensed and let out a warning growl. Normally a docile dog, the most vicious sound Mr. Pickle had ever made was the high-pitched bark he used to threaten the squirrels at the park. Harry crouched, his knees creaking, and soothed down the raised fur along Mr. Pickle’s spine.

            “Easy,” Harry murmured.

            Mr. Pickle ignored Harry, his mouth peeling back to reveal rows of small razor-sharp teeth. He continued to growl, a low guttural sound from deep within his breastbone.

            The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rose and studied the door. At first the only thing he heard was Mr. Pickle’s growing growl, but then there was a creak and Harry’s heart launched into a furious run. He stood and nudged Mr. Pickle back with his foot as best he could.

            Gooseflesh rolled down his arm as he reached for the door. If Harry hadn’t lived in his flat for as long as he had, he’d say it was a ghost creeping in the hall. Perhaps the spirits of all the butterflies Harry had collected had finally come to take their revenge.

            Or there was an intruder.

            Harry swallowed and depressed the knob, slowly opening the door a crack so he could take a cautious look into the inky black hall.

            When nothing launched at him, he let out a breath. Mr. Pickle’s growling didn’t stop, though, and only grew.

            “There’s nothing there,” Harry said, and even as he said it, he didn’t believe it. Mr. Pickle didn’t growl just to growl. But maybe if he insisted, whatever was beyond the door would simply _go away_.

            He couldn’t stay in his office all night. Well, he could. But whatever was beyond the door would surely come in.

            And maybe there was nothing there. Maybe the house settling had finally spooked Mr. Pickle. They were both coming on in the years.

            Harry mustered up his courage, willing his rabbit heart to slow back down to a speed that wouldn’t induce cardiac rest, and walked out into the hall. He slapped his hand against the wall and felt around until he found the light switch. Light chased the coalescing shadows away and illuminated the man standing at the end of the hall near his bedroom.

            “Fuck,” Harry croaked, his entire body seizing up. He couldn’t make out the man’s face, it was covered by a black mask, but he was large, imposing, and brandishing a gun. It was all Harry needed to see for the alarms to go off in his head.

            Mr. Pickle launched out of his office towards the man. The man kicked Mr. Pickle back down the hall like he was nothing. Mr. Pickle yelped and laid crumpled on the hall rug.

            “Mr. Pickle!” Harry shouted.

            He dived for Mr. Pickle, a bullet whizzing past his head as the man fired a shot. Harry scooped Mr. Pickle into his arms, still clutching his journal with one hand. The man rushed down the hall, a giant black freight train that could easily flatten Harry.

            Out of instinct Harry grabbed a pewter candelabra on the hall table with his free hand and swung with all his strength. The candelabra struck the man in the temple and sent him crashing into the wall, knocking pictures to the floor.

            Harry dropped the candelabra and raced down the stairs. He could hear the man behind him, picking himself up and stepping on all of Harry’s pictures, crunching the glass beneath his heavy boots. Another gunshot went off and Harry shouted.

            He fell into the door and groped for the knob. It didn’t open immediately, and it took his panicked brain a few seconds to realize it was locked. A bullet imbedded into the wood frame, sending splinters into Harry’s cheek. He cried out again and hit the deadbolt. He wrenched the door open and ran straight into Eggsy.

            “Woah,” Eggsy said, hands raised.

            “H-he’s going to kill me!” Harry yelled and looked back over his shoulder.

            Eggsy dragged Harry behind him before he could say anything and withdrew a gun from inside his jacket. Eggsy fired at the man coming down the stairs, striking him square in the forehead. The man’s feet tangled and he rolled down the last few stairs, before falling onto the floor in a crumpled heap.

            Bile rose in Harry and he gagged as he looked at the dead body. He didn’t have time to process what was going on, because Eggsy grabbed him by the arm and said, “Come on, we need to move.”

            “What?” Harry croaked. “He’s dead. You killed him.”

            “Yeah, and as you said, he was going to kill you,” Eggsy said. He wasn’t even phased that he just murdered someone. “Now come on, before more show up.”

            “W-what? I’m not going with you,” Harry said and wrenched his arm out of Eggsy’s grip. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

            “A thank you would be nice,” Eggsy said.

            “Thank you for saving me, but I’m still not going with you. I need to call the police,” Harry said.

            “We don’t have time for this,” Eggsy said, the first hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.

            “There’s a dead man in my house! What do you think we should do?” Harry had to be dreaming. He clutched Mr. Pickle closer, who whimpered in protest. Yes, this was just one horrible nightmare and soon he’d wake up in his bed.

            “I’m sorry about this bruv,” Eggsy said, fiddling with his wristwatch, and before Harry could ask what he met, something sharp pricked his neck.

            He swayed, his vision blurring. For a few seconds he was conscious of Eggsy’s sad eyes and his body falling. He was mindful enough to turn his body so he didn’t land on Mr. Pickle. He fell into the blackness, sinking blissfully into the nothingness.


End file.
